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Tait, Gordon & Carpenter, Belinda(2016)The continuing implications of the ’crime’ of suicide: a brief history of thepresent.International Journal of Law in Context, 12(2), pp. 210-224.
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https://doi.org/10.1017/S1744552316000021
The continuing implications of the ‘crime’ of suicide: a brief history of the present
Authors Gordon Tait (Professor, School of Cultural and Professional Learning, faculty of Education, Queensland University of Technology. Email: [email protected]; ph +61 7 3138 3499)
Belinda Carpenter (Professor and Director, Crime and Justice Research Centre, School of Justice, Faculty of Law, Queensland University of Technology. Email: [email protected]; ph+61 7 3138 7111)
Submitted to:
The International Journal of Law in Context
Abstract:
The long history as a criminal offence still has a significant contemporary effect
on how suicide is perceived, conceptualised and adjudged—particularly within
countries where suicide is largely determined within a Coronial system, such as
Australia, the UK and the USA. This paper details the outcomes of a study
involving semi-structured interviews with Coroners both in England and
Australia, as well as observations at inquests. It focuses around the widely-held
contention that the suicide rates produced within these Coronial systems are
underestimations of anywhere between 15% to 50%. The results of these
interviews suggest that there are three main reasons for this systemic
underestimation. The first reflects the legacy of suicide as a criminal offence,
resulting in the highest standard of proof for findings of suicide in the UK, and a
continuing stigma attached to families of the deceased. The second is the
considerable pressure brought to bear upon Coroners by the family of the
deceased, who, because of that stigma, commonly agitate for any finding other
than that of suicide. The third involves the rise of ‘therapeutic jurisprudence’,
wherein coroners take on the responsibility of the emotional wellbeing of the
grieving families, which in turn affects the likelihood of reaching a finding of
suicide. The conclusions drawn by the paper are also twofold: first—with
respect to the stigma of suicide—it will take a lot more than simple
decriminalisation to change deeply-held social perceptions within the
community. Second, given that suicide prevention programs and policies are
based on such highly questionable statistics, targeted changes to Coronial
legislation and practice would appear to be required.
Introduction
Since the end of the 19th century, suicide has been one of sociology’s most highly
researched areas (Durkheim 2002). The vast majority of this research involves
investigation of who kills themselves, and under what circumstances; the
dominant common currency to emerge from these studies is a wide variety of
‘suicide rates’. These suicide rates have been deemed to be of particular
importance as they continue to be used as ‘objective measures’ of the health of
the social body, and more usually, given cohorts within that body (Georgatos
2013). The problem here is that these suicide rates are heavily questioned by
almost all involved in the field, who point to ongoing systemic underestimations
of anywhere between 15% to 50% (De Leo 2007; Walker,Chen and Madden
2008; Tait and Carpenter 2013)—making such rates ‘not only unreliable but
useless for the purpose to which they are put in sociological research’ (Green
1992).
This systemic under-counting may be for a range of reasons. Walker, Chen and
Madden (2008) contend that factors such as disparities between jurisdictions,
lack of standardisation in the reporting of Coronial deaths, and issues over forms
for police reports put a particular slant on the data. They also point to the
reluctance of some Coroners to reach a finding of suicide in the first place. It is
this final factor that constitutes the central problematic of this paper.
In Australia, suicide can only be determined by a Coroner, a finding they are often
particularly reluctant to reach (Senate Community Affairs References Committee
2010). Coroners decide how the notion of suicide is operationalized, where it’s
boundaries lie, which deaths are found to be suicide, and how these deaths are
actually recorded. In short, ‘the truth’ of suicide lies with the Coroner. There
have been numerous attempts to address the ‘problem’ of Coronial
underestimation of suicide (De Leo et al. 2010; Harrison, Abou Elnour and
Pointer 2010)—to the extent that the Australia bureau of Statistics now attempts
to compensate for such ‘underestimation’ issues, post-facto.
Suicide is no longer a crime in most Western countries. It was decriminalised in
the last Australian state in 1958, in the United Kingdom in 1961, in Ireland in
1993, and by 2000 it had been removed from the criminal statutes of all 50
American states (Neeleman 1996). However, the evidence suggests that its long
history as a criminal offence still has a significant contemporary effect on how
suicide is perceived, conceptualised and adjudged—particularly within countries
where suicide is largely determined within a Coronial system, such as in the
United Kingdom, Australia, the USA. This paper will address the central
question: regarding the determination of suicide, in what ways does our past still
shape our present? This question is addressed via coronial research conducted in
England and Australia.
Histories of the Present
According to dominant public narratives regarding the ‘history’ of suicide, it is
only in very recent years that we have been able to adopt an enlightened
approach to the phenomenon. That is, we have now progressed to the stage
where its truth has been all-but revealed—largely through the rise of the
psychological sciences, but also through the concomitant weakening of religious
belief and judgment. Where it was once a serious criminal offence, this previous
regressive legal categorization is long gone, and we can now address suicide with
clarity and rationality. Furthermore, we can look back into the past and not only
see obvious examples of issues such as depressive suicides; we can apply our
contemporary moral lenses to the awful treatment of the families of those who
committed suicide, or those who survived suicide attempts; we can also
accurately trace the historical teleology of our transition from ‘then’ to ‘now’.
Under closer scrutiny, this form of linear, triumphalist history seems more a
pleasant reassuring story we tell ourselves—particularly when considering the
issue of suicide—rather than any kind of defensible analysis about the
relationship between the past and the present. Arguably, a more useful
methodological approach can be found employing Foucault’s ‘history of the
present’. As he wrote, when discussing his history of incarceration:
I would like to write a history of this prison, with all of the political
investments of the body that it gathers together in its closed
architecture. Why? Simply because I am interested in the past? No, if
one means that by writing a history of the past in terms of the
present. Yes, if one means writing a history of the present. (Foucault
1977, 30-31)
A history of the present is concerned with questioning the taken for granted
assumptions about the way in which modern society is ordered. Rather than
looking back to find current social processes and organisations in our own
history, this approach looks back at our society to question the naturalness of
contemporary ways of ordering our lives. As such, it is able to reveal the
heterogeneity of our social identity, one often masked by those who look to the
past to find support for current arrangements and orders. By “suspending
contemporary norms of validity and meaning”, a history of the present seeks to
break with “true, given, natural” ideas of reality; only in such a way can we
understand the socially constructed nature of our own space and time (Dean
1997:32-35).
There are three central elements of a history of the present. First, it takes issue
with the idea of free human agents, or subjects of history, who uses their
attributes to create society. Instead, given the constraints imposed by time,
culture and past experience, it is argued that “history is the stage of human
drama precisely because it is both made and not made by human actors” (Dean
1997:55). Second, a history of the present utilises previously marginalised or
subjugated insights into past lives by using popular knowledges rather than
those of kings or priests, and local memories rather than officially documented
ones. It is these illegitimate and disqualified forms of knowledge that offer us an
insight into the socially created and historically specific ordering of our current
reality. Finally, and most significantly for this paper, a history of the present also
takes issue with the idea that as a society we are progressing in a linear fashion
toward a more civilised society. When we think of the great histories of our
society, they are most often about momentous changes, written as a movement
toward a “perfectible future”. As such, the history of civilisation is about the
triumph of science over nature and/or the mastery of human actors in the
creation of better and more just political and social institutions. As discussed
above, this flawed approach constitutes the dominant narrative regarding the
eventual decriminalisation of suicide. However, the historical evidence suggests
a far more complex past, and a far more complex present.
Histories of Suicide
As Alvarez (1981) points out, history does not contain a blanket prohibition
again suicide. The ancient Greeks were very disapproving of suicide, whereas
the Romans generally regarded suicide positively, considering it a validation of
the stoic principles by which lived and died. Likewise, the Vikings regarded
suicide as one of the noblest of deaths, following their god Odin, who, according
to Norse mythology, killed himself.
Early Christians adopted many of the beliefs and practices of the Romans, and
their approach to suicide was similarly positive. Indeed, early Christianity was
often characterised by the quest for martyrdom:
Even the most stoical Romans committed suicide as a last resort; they
at least waited until their lives had become intolerable. But for the
primitive church, life was intolerable whatever its conditions. Why,
then, live unredeemed when heavenly bliss is only a knife stroke
away? Christian teaching was at first a powerful incitement to
suicide. (Alvarez 1981, 25)
This continued until the 7th century, when sects such as the Donatists brought
frenzied mass suicide to such levels that the church was forced to intervene—
largely for reasons of practical numerical survival. From this point onwards,
suicide came to be shaped as an offence against God, the most deadly of moral
sins, and prohibitions against it became more and more extreme. These
prohibitions—seizing of property by the state, public hanging of the body, burial
in unconsecrated ground with a stake driven through the body—became
relatively standard. Furthermore:
The chosen site was usually at a crossroads, which was also the place
of public execution, and a stone was placed over the dead man’s face;
like the stake, it would prevent him from rising as a ghost to haunt the
living. Apparently, the terror of suicides lasted longer than the fear of
vampires and witches; the last recorded degradation of the corpse of
a suicide to place in England in 1823 … (Alvarez 1981, 8)
The evidence suggests that towards the end of the 19th century, suicide began to
be approach in a different way. Importantly, this change was not brought about
by some humanist realization that perhaps suicide wasn’t so bad after all, rather
it developed as part of the rise of new forms of governance and regulation. That
is, suicide was no longer to be simply a sin against God; it was now an important
indicator of the health and wellbeing of the population. In his Foucaultian
analysis, Marsh (2010) noted that suicide was brought into the realm of the
statistically knowable, and from there largely pathologised as an unfortunate
outcome of mental disorder. Of course, this is by no means a unique
phenomenon, but is instead a familiar tactic for effective contemporary
governance.
The point is here that current attitudes towards suicide, whether social or
administrative, have a complex history, and are cross-cut by a wide range of
different knowledges—theological, ethical, legal, medical, psychological, and
governmental. Consequently, the effects of these knowledges may well need to
be taken into account when attempting to understand how coroners reach their
conclusions in making suicide determinations. Importantly, it is not only aspects
of the history of suicide that has a role to play in shaping these determinations;
other histories are also relevant.
The Place of the Public Inquest in English Law
Unlike Australia, in England there are public coronial inquests, for all suspected
suicides. This is particularly significant because it means that English coroners a
required to deal with grieving families what making their deliberations. How it
came about is also significant, because it also speaks to the coroner’s role, both
within that inquest, and more generally.
From the inception of the role in the 11th century, one of the central
responsibilities of the Coroner has been to investigate deaths ‘considered worthy
of inquiry’ (Burney, 2000, p. 3). This would include deaths such as those by
accident, where there was some suspicion of wrongdoing, and those by suicide.
This eventually became seen as a largely administrative task, conducted in a non-
adversarial environment, as part of the effective administration of the populace.
However, in addition to the recording, assessing and categorizing of death, the
Coroner’s role has more recently expanded, throughout all Commonwealth
countries, to incorporate elements of social management and prevention of harm
(The Victorian Institute of Forensic Medicine, 2013)
Much of the operation of the office of Coroner or Coroners courts in
Australia is centered on injury and death prevention, with the
Coroner empowered to make recommendations on matters of public
health and safety and judicial administration.
Consequently, the Coroner is not only an essential part of our legal system—in
that they manage the relationship between the State, and the death of its citizens,
and in particular, those deaths deemed to warrant investigation—now they are
also an important element of the process by which the State accumulates social
data, data which is used to identify problems and shape policy. The problem
here is clear: if Coroners are reluctant to reach a finding of suicide, as Walker,
Chen and Madden (2008) contend, then their role in production of valid
statistics, which in turn direct social policies and programs (targeting, for
example, suicide prevention), becomes significantly compromised.
It is important to note that the role of the Coroner—and the functioning of the
Coronial Inquest—is not just matters of abstract social and administrative
interest. It has been argued that, historically, both are central to how English
democracy came to be shaped and understood, and as such, questions about how
well the Coronial system works, and about how different former British colonies
have chosen to refract this original office for their own purposes, continue to be
asked. In Bodies of Evidence, Burney (2000) examines the historical role played
by the public inquest in placing important checks on State abuse of power, by
insisting that all prison deaths—and most famously, the deaths of 18 protesting
workers killed by in the Peterloo Massacre in 1819—face public scrutiny and
judgment. This notion, that questionable deaths be the subject of public
investigation—an investigation accessible to, and readily understood by, all
interested parties within the community—became central to English
conceptions of justice and democracy (hence, it is argued, the continuing
importance of pubic inquiries into possible suicides). Indeed, much of Burney’s
book examines the complex tension that arose within the Coronial Inquest,
between the voices of this participatory tradition, and the bearers of new,
scientific knowledge that sought to bring medical expertise to the Inquest
process, often at the expense of public understanding and involvement.
Arguably, this tension—or at least a modern variant on it (ie. between medicine
and the law)—can still be clearly seen within the fabric of contemporary death
investigation (Carpenter & Tait, 2010). Interestingly, it will be argued here that
this research uncovered a far more significant tension, a tension between the
governmental and the pastoral functions of the Coroner—between what appears
to be an investigative and preventative role (investigative, in delivering an
appropriate finding, and preventative, in contributing accurate data to inform
social policy), and a therapeutic role (in looking after the well-being of bereaved
families). That is, in addition to these two prescribed roles of the coroner—
death investigation and social management—this research will suggest that
there appears to be a third function, one which may often sit at odds with the
first two, in that coroners have been allocated, or perhaps more accurately, have
allocated themselves a role in the process of giving closure to grieving families.
This ‘therapeutic’ role may often result in Coroners managing the inquest in
ways that go well beyond the simple finding of facts, and which has significant
implications for the administrative elements of the task.
The Rise of Therapeutic Jurisprudence
The tension evidenced among the Coroners concerning the role of the family in
suicide determination appears to be relatively new, as there is little sign of it in
Burney’s book on the English Coronial inquest during the late nineteenth and
early twentieth centuries mentioned earlier. What may have happened here are
the effects of a new vector within the coronial process, what Freckelton (2008,
576) refers to as ‘therapeutic jurisprudence’—defined as ‘the study of the role of
the law as a therapeutic agent’.
Within this approach, the law is not simply a set of codes to be followed without
reflection, much in the manner of Legal Positivism; such codes have
consequences for all those caught up in the proceedings. As such, legal
institutions, and those charged with making them work, are now deemed to have
some responsibility for the mental and emotional wellbeing of all participants.
King (2008, 4) is quite explicit in his call for an increasingly therapeutic
approach to Coronial practice:
Coroners’ work is intimately connected with well-being—a concern of
therapeutic jurisprudence. Part of the Coroner’s role is to determine
whether there are public health or safety issues arising out of the
death and whether any action needs to be taken to remedy any
problems, particularly those that may cause future deaths …
Moreover, the dead person’s family suffer grief and, depending upon
circumstances of the death, significant trauma.
According to this logic, it would be insufficient for a Coroner to reach a finding
within a suicide inquest, without considering how this finding might impact upon
those left behind by the death. Coroners would no longer be regarded, or regard
themselves, as mere functionaries in the process of recording death statistics, but
rather they would have a therapeutic role to play in the emotional and
psychological health of their wider communities. This is not to say that the
trauma of losing a loved one cannot ever be exacerbated by being told the truth
about it, but it does suggest that the Coroners responsibilities lie beyond simply
determining the cause and circumstances of death. As Freckleton (2008, 577)
states: ‘Therapeutic jurisprudence … is in part a practical orientation towards
minimizing adverse outcomes. And it is in part about working with the realities
of the broad repercussions of the law to fashion them as constructively a
possible’.
In summary then, it is suggested here that there is no neat, linear story to be told
of the decriminalization of suicide; that the coronial process is likely to be the
piecemeal product of various historical knowledges, imperatives, practices and
beliefs; that the process of suicide determination is likely to still show traces of
these practices and beliefs; and that this process is not now fixed in amber, in
that new knowledges will continue to arise which will affect how suicide is
determined and managed.
Methodology
This paper details the results from two associated research projects. These
projects involve the analysis of English and Australian coronial practice
regarding suicide determination.
The first research project was conducted within one geographic area within
England, and consisted of two parts. In the first part, observations were made at
twenty public inquests into possible suicides. Contact was made with each
coronial office, who then suggested which inquests to attend. All the inquests
were within the same part of England; they were conducted over a four month
period, some lasting two days, some lasting less than an hour; most took
between 3-4 hours. The inquests attended reached a variety of different
conclusions, including suicide, accident, open verdicts, and narrative verdicts.
The second part of the English research involved semi-structured interviews,
informed by observation made at the inquests. These were conducted with six
coroners who had presided over the above inquests. Once again, all were from
the same part of England. The interviews were conducted over a two month
period; generally, they lasted about an hour, and they were conducted in a
variety of locations.
The second research project was conducted within one State jurisdiction within
Australia. Unlike the English study, no observations were made at inquest. In
Australia, inquests are not a regular part of coronial practice for making
determinations of suicide, except under special circumstances. Instead, the
research consisted solely of semi-structured interviews with coroners. These
interviews were conducted with five coroners, all from the capital city of the
state, and its surrounding areas. The interviews were conducted over a one
month period, and were conducted in the coroner’s offices, also lasting about an
hour.
Results
With regards to the legacy of suicide as a criminal offence, the results of this
study suggest a complex intersection of issues and factors that affect the
decision-making processes of English and Australian coroners. Taking these is
turn:
1) Irrespective of it’s current legal status, coroners are very aware of the
criminal history of suicide.
… the traditions of the body never being put to rest; the body being torn
into four sections, planted in the ground in different sections, stakes put
through the heart and the fact that the body will never be able to rise
from the dead because it's been torn apart, staked to the ground and
the person will be forever in hell. (English Coroner 3)
If you go back in English law 150 years or so suicide was absolutely a
dreadful thing to do to yourself. You were cheating on God, you would
not have any hope of resurrection … At that stage apparently coroners
had been giving burial orders which said that the deceased must be
buried at the junction of four roads with a stake through their body -
and I'm not getting mixed up with Transylvania here, this is really what
it said - where beggars could spit upon their graves as they went past.
(English Coroner 4)
However, the interviews suggest that English coroners remain much more
concerned by these historic legal issues, than do their Australian counterparts.
The Australian coroners do not seem to consider the history of suicide as a crime
to be particularly relevant to their current determinations. There could be a
number of reasons for this, many based around social and cultural differences
between the two countries, but one significant issue is likely to be:
2) The United Kingdom retains the criminal standard of proof for suicide
determination, and hence retains greater links to suicide as a crime
As a direct legacy of times when it was categorized as a crime, the standard of
proof required for reaching a finding of suicide by an English coroner is highest
possible: ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’. This stands in contrast to the necessary
Australian standard, which is ‘on the balance of probabilities.’ The importance of
this issue is compounded by the fact that English coroners express a nuanced
understanding of just what constitutes ‘beyond a reasonable doubt.’
‘The standard of proof of beyond a reasonable doubt as applied in the
public prosecution services is quite a lot lower really … I doubt many
people would be prosecuted if you needed the level of sureness you need
for a suicide verdict … Don’t misunderstand that there’s only one
standard of proof, which is beyond a reasonable doubt, but then of
course it’s up to interpret what’s beyond a reasonable doubt.’ (English
Coroner 1)
Consequently, in England a finding of suicide can be very hard to attain. Many
deaths, which would readily meet the Australian standard, are classified as
something else, such as ‘accident’ or an ‘open verdict’. This particularly
stringent reading of ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ results in a significant
reduction in the numbers of English suicides recorded each year, a fact of which
the coroners are very aware:
‘Every coroner does things differently, and like I say, a rough rule of
thumb—if you’re looking at statistics, I can guarantee that suicide is
under-represented. Roughly, I say you could add a third onto the figure
…’ (English Coroner 4)
‘We’re left with about 300 cases a year which we inquest … I would say
we do 50 suicides a year out of 300—genuine suicide verdicts. Then
there are probably about another 30 odd, which probably are.’ (English
Coroner 1)
This is not to suggest that Australian coroners are prepared to hand out findings
of suicide without an equal measure of caution, however this caution is framed
within a significantly lower legislated standard of proof.
‘… the more serious it is, the higher up the scale you have to go towards
‘reasonable doubt’. You don’t have to get there; it’s just on the balance,
the balance has to be a lot stronger than just ‘probably’. (Australian
Coroner 2)
‘It’s just the same as any other finding coroners make; you have to be
satisfied having regard to the seriousness of the finding. Suicide is a
more serious finding than accidental death.’ (Australian Coroner 5)
Once again, whether as a consequence of the retention of the criminal standard
of proof, or for other more complex reasons, English coroners profess a greater
awareness of issues of stigma than seems to be the case in Australia.
3) English coroners are more concerned with ‘stigma’ than their Australian
counterparts.
Almost all of the English coroners interviewed brought up the issue of the stigma
that suicide leaves with the family of the deceased. Not only does this matter
appear fundamental to how English coroners understand the notion of suicide, it
also seems central to how they reach a determination.
I think a lot of coroners – me included – sometimes take a
sympathetic view of the family, and perhaps, well, you know – why
leave them with the stigma of this, when we can actually make their
situation better? (English Coroner 1)
People are concerned to avoid a suicide verdict, because of the stigma
attached to it and you notice I didn’t use suicide and that I originally
used the words ‘took his own life’. If the evidence stacks up and we
can say, when the person’s mind was disturbed, then that sometimes
ameliorates the stigma to the family. (English Coroner 2)
Felo de se was not only a crime but it was a huge, huge social stigma
because you know you’re damned … and of course previous to that, if
you committed suicide, the state would forfeit all your good because
that’s how the Coroner made money for the Crown. (English Coroner
4)
This is not to say that Australian coroners are unaware of the potential of stigma
falling upon the deceased’s family, indeed some Australian legislation is written
with this very possibility in mind:
The Births Deaths and Marriages Act, which was reformed at the
same time as the Coroners Act, says you can't put suicide on the
register; you can't even mention it on the BDM register … because of
the stigma. It damages the reputation of the family and the dead
person. (Australian Coroner 2)
However, while not irrelevant, it is clear that the issue of stigma is considered by
Australian coroners to be of lesser importance, certainly to their own
deliberations as coroners.
Somewhat related to the issue of stigma, it became evident from the both sets of
interviews, and from the additional observations made at inquest, that a further
historical issue was of importance when considering matters impacting directly
upon suicide rates: the frequency of English coronial inquests.
4) Due to compulsory public inquests in England, English coroners
necessarily deal directly with the grieving families, upon whom the stigma
of a suicide finding would fall
In Australia, inquests are relatively uncommon, only deployed when there is a
specific reason for doing so, whereas in England, all possible suicides result in an
inquest. The crucial issue here is that holding an inquest gives the family of the
deceased direct access to the very person who is going to make the formal
decision about the circumstances of that death. This decision has significant
social implication, and the desperation of the family not to have a suicide finding
by the coroner is perfectly understandable, given the stigma still associated with
this verdict, and while some English coroners profess relative immunity to the
wishes of family members, others are aware that such wishes often factor into
their overall decision-making process.
‘They tend to come in numbers. If you’ve got 10 members of the family
with their eyes burning on you, and they really don’t want that verdict, it
is very, very hard …’ English Coroner 4
‘It’s very tempting to give a sympathetic verdict to the poor widow who
stands before you saying we can’t be sure he took his own life – this
dreadful thing.’ English Coroner 1
In contrast to this approach, some coroners state that they are not at all swayed
by the wishes of the deceased’s family.
‘It boils down to evidence as far as I’m concerned … I wouldn’t be
persuaded just because they’re all shouting [the family] … I’m afraid
you’ve just got to be robust about it and stick by your guns.’ English
Coroner 2
In the absence of an inquest, Australian coroners are not subjected to constant
family requests to reach findings other than suicide. Without such extraneous
emotional pressure, Australian coroners claim that they are in a better position
to reach their finding based solely upon the information presented to them.
Australian families are still welcome to have an input, and this is factored into
the eventual finding, but this is not done in person, and in the absence of direct
family contact, the Australian coroners appear to feel that they have greater
latitude in reaching the finding of their choice:
‘You find that the families will write to you and they will say… this was
not a suicide. You go … well, everything suggests that they bought the
rope the day before at Mitre 10, they waited until everyone had left the
house, there's a note that says this is what they're intending to do, and
they were found hanging in the shed. If it's not suicide, then what the
hell is it? … I’m not writing fiction. I’m not making it a different death.’
Australian Coroner 2.
While English coroners may regard the inquest as the cornerstone of their
professional lives, it appears to have no such status in Australia. Indeed, while
Australian coroners are fully aware of the structure of the English system, they
consider that the economic and emotional costs of inquests are far too high to
warrant the introduction of the practice within their own jurisdictions:
‘It gives me pause for thought, but yeah … I don't know how you would
be resilient, and how it couldn't impact on your decisions actually if you
were involving yourself face to face with families who may simply be
wanting to speak with the person making the decision, or maybe
wanting to influence that decision ...’ Australian Coroner 4
The continuing effects of the two historical factors discussed so far—the legacy
of suicide as a crime, and the practical implications of compulsory inquests—are
not the only factors at play in reducing contemporary suicide rates. One final
reason involves a relatively new set of expectations placed upon coroners,
relating to taking responsibility for the emotional wellbeing of grieving families.
5) English coroners consider they have a responsibility to consider the
emotional wellbeing of the grieving family in reaching their decisions
It became apparent during the interviews—particularly in England—that there
are differing opinions over the central role of the coroner. Some coroners took a
fairly hard line over their determinations—understanding their role as
fundamentally administrative—while others saw their role in a more pastoral
light, pertaining first and foremost to helping the grieving family.
‘I often engage the family and will say, ‘I’m thinking along these lines. What’s
your view?’ Sometimes if you carry the families with you, it’s more
cathartic—it’s totally wrong, but it’s a more cathartic experience for them …
you put the family at the heart of the inquiry.’ English Coroner 4
Which can be directly contrasted with:
‘I’m not a social service. I’m supposed to be making an inquiry on behalf
of the State, not on behalf of the family, and if this person has taken their
own life, and the evidence satisfies me beyond a reasonable doubt that
this is the case, what verdict can I possibly come to other that that they
have taken their own life?’ English Coroner 6
Clearly, there is a division here between those Coroners who see their principal
task as providing comfort and closure to grieving families, and those for whom
the job remains steadfastly administrative. This tension may well be relatively
new, and is evidence of precisely what Freckelton (2008) refers to as
‘therapeutic jurisprudence’. Coroners now feel a professional obligation for the
mental and emotional wellbeing of the bereaved—irrespective of the
consequences for other elements of their job, ie. the accuracy of the suicide data
for which they are primarily responsible.
The question here then is: has ‘therapeutic jurisprudence’ taken a greater hold
within English coronial practice, as opposed to Australian, or indeed, were some
of elements of therapeutic jurisprudence—social healing—always present to a
greater extent in England, with its inquest-based, death investigations?
Certainly, the evidence presented in this research suggests that concern for the
wellbeing of the bereaved family plays a significantly greater role in the English
coronial system than it does in its Australian equivalent.
Conclusion
It is apparent from this research that coronial practice regarding suicide
determination, both in England and Australia, still bear the imprint of a range of
historical factors, most significantly being the long-held status of suicide as a
criminal offence, and (at least in England) the continuing perceived importance
of the public nature of inquests. In addition to the two issues, the rise of
therapeutic jurisprudence further complicates the decision-making process, with
all the concomitant implications for the production of defensible suicide
statistics. Two main conclusions can be drawn from this research.
First, as previously stated, suicide has not been a criminal offence in the United
Kingdom or Australia for over sixty years. However, the conduct of bereaved
families at inquest, and the lengths some coroners will go to in order to
accommodate their desire for an ‘anything but suicide’ finding, suggests that it
will take much more than decriminalization to change deeply-held social
proscriptions regarding this form of death. Formally legislating for suicide to be
treated like any other non-criminal death does not magically make it so.
Second, this research raises the important question: what can be done about the
production of suicide statistics that are widely regarded as unsatisfactory?
While most coroners understand and accept their role within the governmental
regulation of death, this often deemed secondary to their less tangible pastoral
role in helping families deal with bereavement, and what they perceive to be
continuing social stigma, certainly in England. While this is not necessarily an
invalid or inappropriate role for Coroners to have adopted—such management
of community emotional wellbeing constitutes an important function of
governance, and Coroners are as well placed as any to participate in the
process—however, the relative confusion over their responsibilities may need
formal clarification. As it stands, a focus on the therapeutic components of the
position, managing as it does, archaic religious concerns over socially
unacceptable deaths, appears to be impacting on the ability of many Coroners to
fulfill their administrative responsibility to the full. Given the importance of
suicide statistics, this may require targeted changes to coronial legislation and
practice.
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